Our neighbor, Maude, adds whole new meaning to the words "pushy" and "forceful." By the time we finished saying, "Nice meeting you," eight years ago, plans to straighten us out had taken shape in her busy mind. She would assume responsibility for our well being, save our lost souls, supervise us, educate us, correct us, help us, OWN us. Ahhh ... she could hardly wait to get started.
Maude needed to be needed.
I needed to be left alone.
The battle was on. I fought it while Phillip looked on from wheelchair or hospital bed, and laughed his fool head off.
I wasn't laughing.
Months were spent intercepting her attempts to be part of our lives: "No, thank you, Maude, I know you mean well, but I don't want you to carry our trash to the dumpster. No, thank you, I don't want you to carry in my groceries. No, thank you, the mailman doesn't need to leave our packages at your house. No, Phillip and I don't want or need your kind of saving so please put your bible away. No. No. No. No."
Finally, in desperation, I told her - in my meanest voice - to leave us alone.
She sulked for two peaceful years before trying to edge back in. One day while I was awkwardly sweeping my patio, Maude walked over and asked what, exactly, was wrong with me.
I should have said none of her business. Instead, I told her, "I have an autoimmune disease called rheumatoid arthritis."
With mocking scornful voice, Maude replied, "Oh, I have that too!" "Everybody has that! It's nothing!"
My crippled fingers pointed out the smooth perfect knuckles on her hand and I said, "No, Maude, you may have osteo-arthritis, but you don't have rheumatoid. It's a horrible disease that shows up first in the hands before going on to destroy bones, joints and sometimes even internal organs. Be thankful you don't have rheumatoid."
That did it! How dare I dispute her word!
When we first moved to Murfreesboro, Phillip's van was given a well-marked handicap space in front of our apartment, and the slot next to it was also striped off to prevent parking in front of our walkway and enable Phillip to come and go in his wheelchair.
As Phillip's MS worsened through the years, confining him to a hospital bed, RA steadily took its toll on me. Balance turned precarious. Mobility became a bigger challenge. Doctors prescribed a walker, and handicap spaces Phillip no longer needed became necessary for me. Papers, bearing proof of disability, were issued in my name.
Life moved along peacefully for Phillip and me.
Maude, however, was not happy. According to her rule book, Phillip and I had been given designated parking space we didn't deserve.
Poor Maude ... She found exactly the right space near her own apartment to suit her perfectly. She informed all neighbors that this space was hers and no one else should park there, but since the space wasn't marked, her wishes were largely ignored and she often came home from prayer meeting to find some idiot had parked in her space!
It became Phillip's favorite entertainment over the past few years ... watching out the window ... waiting to see Maude's mad fit each time she arrived home to find her territory invaded.
Last week our parking lot was freshly paved and re-striped. When the work was finished, the off-limits area in front of my walkway no longer existed. It was now an ordinary parking spot with a strange car's front bumper hanging over the end of my walkway.
My walker and I could no longer go over to the mailbox or down to the dumpster. My walker and I were grounded!
I called the apartment manager to plead my case. She wasn't concerned. Maude had been busily telling the manager - and the entire neighborhood - there was nothing wrong with me. everyone had known for at least two years that I was just pushing that walker around for fun. Maude knew what she knew and shared her knowledge freely. There was nothing wrong with me.
My next call went to Karen. She informed me - in that kind patient tone all loving daughters use when reasoning with difficult parents - that "pleading" was my first mistake. "You don't plead, Mama. You state."
Ohhh ...
I said, "Karen, I may be able to cut across the grass and go over to another sidewalk."
Karen said, "No, Mama, those people are going to re-open your walkway."
I said, "What if they don't?"
Karen said, "You'll tell them to kiss your butt and you and Phillip will move in with me."
Ohhh ...
My precious daughter was on her way to work when she made that rash statement. She had all night long to think, "what have I gotten myself into now? Mama will tape baby pictures all over the front of my refrigerator. ohmygod. ohmygod. ohmygod. What have I done?"
Deep breaths here.
She'd straighten this mess out.
Next morning Karen instructed me to write a brief letter to the apartment manager with a carbon copy to the leasing agent:
To whom it may concern:
I am disabled and need access
from my front door onto the
parking lot. I require the use of
a walker and need a smooth flat
surface that will allow the wheels
to roll without resistance.
Karen made copies of medical papers circling my name and the words PERMANENT DISABILITY with red. Then she attached legal papers stating laws I didn't know existed, requiring apartment managers to provide reasonable requirements to disabled people or face very high fines.
Equipped with the letter, my medical proof and her legal papers, here we went down to the apartment manager's office. I remained in the car, watching with great interest, as my daughter rolled up her sleeves and prepared to do battle. The conversation took place on the patio so I had a ringside seat. Karen was cool, polite and very firm. Apartment manager never had a chance.
Karen stated (she did not plead) our case at 9:00AM
By 11:00AM my striped off area had been restored.
Maude is homicidal.
email: MelindaGerner@yahoo.com
